Cross My Heart and Hope To Die
by hopesallthings
Summary: It always was hard to keep things from Alice. So naturally, he had secrets that only she knew.
1. Chapter 1

None of them ever knew where exactly it was that he went. None of them were really all that interested though, either. The bookstore? Probably. It was the only thing they could think of. Where else would he be off to for almost two hours, other than somewhere where he could read?

Still, none of them cared enough to find out. Only after the first five months he and Alice had been living with them, every Sunday morning, he'd walk out the door, and always come back about an hour and a half later. Never once did that routine change. Every single town they went to, every single barrier that got in the way, he'd always leave and come back.

None of them knew where he went.

None of them cared.

Except one.

Alice skipped down the stairs, smiling brightly at him as his hand grabbed the handle. "May I join you?"

He raised a perfect blond eyebrow towards her. This was new.

All she did was grin a bit bigger, the slyness almost there, and it almost hurt to feel the excitement bouncing off her. That was normal though.

Shrugging, he held the door open for her. "Of course."

He easily sped down the slippery roads, barely concentrating on the traffic, but instead on the joy radiating through the car in waves. He should've been used to it by now, he knew, but her emotions never once failed to completely grab and hold in his attention.

In a time that seemed much too short, they pulled up to the old stone building, and the moment they were out of the car she grabbed his hand, towing him along with her through the huge wooden doors at the front, acting as if she was the one who did this all the time and he was the guest.

He didn't care.

He never did.

A few heads turned as they made their entrance, though they tried to blend in with the crowd that walked in alongside them.

Most headed to the front.

The stayed in the back corner.

She cuddled up close to him, their hands still gripped together, listening to the soft music of the organist that sat in the balcony above them. Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring. He had heard the song a thousand times, but still welcomed the warm melody; welcomed the soothing affects it had on everyone around them.

Narcotics.

The emotions here were always like a drug.

Peaceful.

Hopeful.

Quiet.

Good.

Maybe that's why he never once failed to come here. It all was so comforting after so long of being tortured by everyone around him. It was a break.

Or maybe it was just the fact that he wanted—needed—the belief that there was something greater than the shame and punishment of this world. The faith that there was someone out there willing to forgive even a killer like him if he tried hard enough.

Either way, whatever the reason, it didn't matter.

Because the service always began.

_1. For the past fifty years, he'd never once missed a church service._


	2. Chapter 2

Nobody else knew when his birthday was. He never told them. Whenever they asked, he'd just say that he couldn't remember; that it was lost, along with most of his other human memories.

It was a lie.

He just didn't like the attention.

Still, he couldn't keep it from Alice.

But she never threw him a birthday party. She may have wanted to, under other circumstances. She threw parties for every other member of the family. She had even made up a date for herself, and pretended it was her own, happy about the fact that there was a 1 in 365 chance that she had guessed right. The date changed every year, with the hope that maybe, just maybe, it'd land on her actual birthday someday.

He shied away from that.

But she never made him celebrate. When she found out when it was, she never threw the surprise party that he had expected she would. She never brought out the balloons. She never forced Carlisle to take the day off work and the kids to all skip school. She never made everyone buy him elaborate presents and take him out on a huge vacation to a rich, foreign country.

She understood.

They sat in the attic.

There was no light in the attic. No window. No bulb. Didn't matter; they could still see perfectly.

It was dusty up there. None of the Cullens ever really visited. It was a storage space. Somewhere the spiders felt comfortable.

Webs dangled from the ceiling all around.

Quiet.

Neither of them ever said anything on this day. Even Alice, who normally found it impossible to stop unconsciously chatting, kept a solemn voice.

But not a solemn face.

She smiled brightly as she silently handed him this year's card. She never bought the cards. She knew he wouldn't find any importance in that. Instead she made them for him.

This year's was a subtle yellow. A light color. Something happy. A perfect replica of the diner they had met in was scrawled on it, the same rain that had been pounding on them thirty years ago neatly depicted on the paper, though the dreariness was thrown off by the background color of the sun.

He looked up at her, his expression clearly saying thank you.

She just nodded, took it from his hands, and opened it for him, handing it back.

The words weren't anything romantic.

They didn't say Happy Birthday or any other kind of artificial phrase like that.

They were simple and few, quickly jotted down in her perfect calligraphy.

_ Jazz,_

_ It's going to rain in Philly tonight. The diner's still running. How 'bout it?_

His face broke into a huge grin, and he grabbed her hand, pulling her up from the wooden floor.

They were going to Pennsylvania.

_2. He remembers his birthday, and enjoys celebrating it with her._


	3. Chapter 3

Nobody else knew about his secret little talent. His brighter English teachers through the years may have figured it out, but he was careful to hide it.

Especially from Emmett. Lord only knows he'd never forget about it if Emmett found out.

He was embarrassed somewhat by it. He enjoyed reading and writing, as did a lot of other people, but he didn't honestly believe they'd understand this. It was his secret niche. Something he did for fun. Something he did for release.

And nobody knew about it.

Except her.

She didn't make fun of him like their brothers would have though. To her, it was completely comprehendible. She got it.

He liked that she got it.

He liked that he could share.

She lay on their massive bed, stomach down, as her legs went back and forth, hitting the covers one at a time in a rhythmic motion. A piece of paper sat in front of her face, his elegant handwriting covering the majority of it, despite the fact he had written smaller than usual to get it all to fit.

The smile on her face grew with each line her eyes eagerly ran across, desperate to hear more. It was her life force. Her nourishment.

He sat across from her, in the wooden chair by the window, watching her expression, constantly testing her emotions. He always did. He knew he shouldn't have been, but he couldn't help but always be nervous whenever she read something of his. His private thoughts were poured out for her to see, for her to freely explore. Every single emotion laid out on the table, transformed into perfectly fitting words.

No secrets.

Nothing but truth.

But she got happiness from it.

So he did too.

He thrived from it.

She looked back up at him as soon as her gaze was done running across the last period, and tears would have surely been in her eyes if she could produce them. "That was beautiful Jazz."

He looked down, embarrassed. Shrugging, he answered in a quiet voice. "Just a spur of the moment drabble I wanted to get down on paper, I guess. Ain't all that great."

In less than a second she was in his arms, sitting on his lap, her lips gracefully bouncing off of his own before backing just as quickly away. "What inspired you?" She asked, honestly curious.

That emotion rarely came from her.

She usually knew everything.

His lips twitched, though he fought to keep a steady face. "You, of course. Same as the rest of them."

Her soprano giggle filled the room, and she kissed him once more, far more passionately this time, before stuffing yet another blank sheet into his hand, hating the fact that she couldn't look ahead and see what he'd scribe out until he actually thought of it. But her orders were simple and few. "Write me another."

_3. He wrote poetry when no one was watching._


	4. Chapter 4

No one ever knew they still sat in the back of his closet.

But they did.

No matter what house they went to, and what knew storage area he got, he always took the ratty old things with him. They were put away immediately before anyone else could see them. He didn't know why he didn't want anyone else knowing about them. Maybe it was because it was one of the last things he owned as a human. Maybe it was because he had used them so often for so many years; had an almost special attachment to them. Maybe it was just because he didn't want someone trying to buy him new ones; somehow find a replacement to these.

And maybe it was because he didn't want to be mocked for bonding with a pair of footwear.

He sat in the back of the closet, in case someone walked into the room. He didn't want to be seen.

In the dark area, surrounded by clothes, he sat on the floor, polishing his beloved army boots.

The things had been falling apart for over a century. The soles were by now almost completely ripped off. The leather heals were worn from their original black to a dirty brown. The laces were broken and matted. There were holes at the ends. They were completely beyond repair.

But he polished away.

So help him, he didn't care how old and worn they were, but he'd endure the worst of tortures before he saw them ever get dirty.

They were his shoes.

He wore them proudly in battle after battle.

They always served him well.

They had never once abandoned him.

And in their old age, their glory days long since passed, he refused to abandon them.

He stiffened momentarily when he sensed someone walk into the room, but immediately relaxed when he recognized the chipper emotions radiating onto him.

A second later the closet door quickly opened and shut once more, and Alice came in and sat next to him, leaning against his shoulder.

No words were needed.

She had known for a long time how important the old things were to him. He had still been wearing them in the diner when they met. When she had commented about buying him a new pair—throwing those ones out—he had stiffened. She asked why. He told her without hesitation.

Through everything—through his 16th birthday, through the Civil War, through war after war alongside Maria, through killing innocents, through his stay with Peter and Charlotte, through meeting Alice, they had been with him. She understood that. She never tried to buy him new ones to replace the old; never pushed him into getting more modern, better cared for ones. She always had been one to only wear a pair of clothes once before throwing them out the door, but that didn't stop her from realizing the importance of these.

They were the one thing in the world that he had always known were his, and his alone.

He had gotten several hundreds of pairs since then. They all came and went.

But the army boots never left his closet.

And every once in a while, Alice would come in and help him clean them.

She never thought of it as a lost cause if it made him happy.

_4. He never was able to part with his old shoes._


	5. Chapter 5

No one else knew about that smell that had always pulled him. That sweet, almost lemony scent that always caught and held his attention when it hit him. It wasn't the strong kind, that made your eyes water. It was the soft kind that reminded you of picnic under a shady tree during the summer. The kind that reminded you of home.

It was one of the few human memories that never faded.

He didn't remember much of his family. His mother had died before he had run away to join the war. Still, she never once left his mind.

He was confused after his transformation. He had woken up in pain, negative emotions crashing down on him, scared, alone—neither Maria, Nettie, or Lucy had stayed to comfort him through the fire. None of them stayed to hold his hand while he screamed, or to explain things to him while he was listening. They had left him to work it all out on his own; they'd come for him when they were sure it was over.

But that didn't help him.

As he had scrambled for some explanation of everything, his thoughts continuously went back to one thing: his mother. He was in hell, he knew that. She couldn't have gone anywhere but heaven. He broke down into dry sobs the moment he realized he wouldn't get to see her in the afterlife, as she had promised when she sang him to sleep at night.

Maria and an unfamiliar man walked in then. It was the first time he had ever been physically punished for showing weakness, for sobbing. It was far from the last.

In the frenzy of his newborn year, he had become absolutely terrified when he couldn't remember her face. Through the years, he learned to live with the fact that he'd never be able to bring back any memories of her. He absolutely hated the idea. But no matter how hard he thought and how long he pondered, he just couldn't get the image into his minds' eye.

It was 1947. He had gotten out of Maria's power, and was free. At seeing his depressed, nearly catatonic state, a worried Peter and Charlotte had insisted that he spend the day on the town. He didn't have any money, but very involuntarily Peter had thrown some at him, saying that he wasn't allowed to refuse. They kicked him out of the hotel; told him to have fun, buy something nice for himself. Nothing practical, just something he'd like.

He didn't know what he'd like.

He had spent so long in a black abyss, just barely surviving, that the idea of enjoyment seemed impossible. He had forgotten everything about his personality within months of his rebirth. He no longer knew what he used to do for fun, what his favorite food was, how he used to like reading. After a while, it was sometimes hard to even remember what his name was.

He knew killing.

Nothing more.

So, walking through a nearly empty mall, the venom still managing to rage fury in his throat, he had passed a small gift store.

The smell was like a sledge hammer hitting him full force.

He remembered her.

He had bought the small bottle that day, though never told Peter and Charlotte about it; he had satisfied their nerves by saying he bought a book. Every day since then, when nobody was around to see or smell it, he'd take the perfume out and spray one single time into the air. And every single time, he'd be able to picture his mothers face. Picture a younger version of himself running up and grabbing onto her skirt, pushing his nose into her leg and breathing in the perfect smell that he could now hold in his hand.

They were the exact same.

About a year after they had met, Alice had bought some more. She had somehow managed to find yet another place that sold the same scent, though there was no label on either of them. Still, through the glass of the container, she was able to recognize it.

She wore it sometimes, just to make him happy. The first time was on their wedding. And sometimes she'd still spray it onto her wrists and neck.

She'd hold him tightly.

And for just a moment, he could recall what it was like being in his mother's arms.

_5. Sometimes, he sprays a lemon perfume to bring back lost memories._


	6. Chapter 6

Nobody knew where he went during the summer, on those cloudy days. Just like on Sundays, he'd mysteriously disappear every once in a while without so much as a word or glance in their direction. They all figured, as usual, it was the bookstore. There wasn't much else they could imagine him doing on his own outside the house.

He read.

That was really all they ever did see him doing for fun. He'd wrestle with Emmett once in a while, yes, but that was mostly to make him happy. He'd accompany Edward's piano with his guitar, very rarely, but he did. He didn't enjoy it, especially when the family began gathering around to hear him play, but it made both Edward and Esme happy, so it was bearable. He'd spend time helping Rosalie with cars, but only because Emmett wasn't always there, and she usually needed a jack. He'd help Esme in her garden, but only because she had such a calming presence, which he yearned to feel as much as possible. He'd play chess with Carlisle. He knew Carlisle wanted to be closer to him, so although he never cared much for the game, he'd put up with it.

He did things for everyone else all the time, despite the fact he usually hated doing them.

The only thing _he_ ever did for enjoyment was read.

So it had to be the bookstore. There was nothing else on the list.

Nobody really knew where he went during the summer. Nobody knew he worked hard to get all the smells off before he came home so they'd never find out.

Alice smiled as she watched her husband easily scooping up the hay with a rusty old pitchfork. He made it look harder than she knew it really was for him, but only to satisfy any humans that may have walked by.

Whenever she came along with him, she very rarely helped. If she thought it would have made him happier, she gladly would have come and cleaned the stalls with him. But she knew the more he could do on his own—the more he could prolong his work there—the happier he'd be.

So she sat off to the side, easily sitting lightly on the wooden ledge, her feet swinging back and forth as she watched him continuously bend over for another load.

He didn't know for sure why he got so much pleasure from it. Maybe it was just old habit; he had always taken care of the horses when he was growing up. Maybe it was the familiar smell that he was drawn to. Maybe it was because of the horses he'd had in the Army; they were just as loyal as his other comrades, and gallantly stuck with him no matter how gruesome the battles got.

Whatever it was, it didn't matter much. Each summer, he'd nonetheless find a ranch and volunteer his services, his face involuntarily lighting at the idea.

He never rode, no, though the yearning was always there, tugging at the back of his mind. A part of him wanted to feel that freedom again, even though he knew he could go over ten times faster than the best racing horse out there. Still, to just surrender to the animal under him and become one.

The yearning was there.

But he resisted.

As much pleasure as he may have gotten from it, he knew the animal would only canter in nervousness and vulnerability.

Animals weren't as dumb as humans. They trusted their instincts, instead of try to make excuses for them. When they felt danger, they trusted the feeling.

A horse was no exception.

He'd never ride them, no.

But maybe just caring was enough.

So he continued to go, Alice usually coming with him.

The others wouldn't understand.

But she got it perfectly.

_6. He had two hobbies he'd be sure to do each summer—reading and horses._


	7. Chapter 7

No one ever really did realize he had fears.

He was a soldier. He had fought in bloody battle after bloody battle for decades. He had thousands of gruesome memories that plagued him; scars that marred and ravaged his body for proof. He knew how to defend himself in the worst of times.

What did he have to be scared of?

The only thing that ever occurred to them was losing his family. The only thing that could possibly scare him was them being in danger; his Alice being in danger.

Right?

She skipped happily up the steps, the smile still in place after seeing the vision that had just played through in her mind. She was surprisingly grateful Edward wasn't there at the time. She knew he'd never let her him live it down.

Gracefully skidding to a stop in front of his room, her tiny fist wrapped lightly on the door once, before she let herself in, not waiting for an answer.

And although she had already seen this once before, she couldn't hold back the small giggle at seeing it once more.

Her husband—the brave and fearsome warrior—stood on his massive dresser, a cowering look on his face, the true terror in his expression completely out of place.

And his eyes were pointed to only one thing: the garter snake on the floor.

"Jazz," she began quietly, making sure her voice was low enough nobody else could hear. "You do realize it's completely harmless, even to humans, don't you?"

He hissed, glaring up at the amused emotions she suddenly realized she was feeling. "I don't care. Now would you stop standing there laughing and get it out of my room?!" His voice was a dangerously fast whisper, and as the utterly helpless creature moved an inch towards him, his head snapped towards it once more, the panic in his expression more pronounced.

She rolled her eyes and walked swiftly over to it, picking it up off the ground without hesitation.

She sighed as she dangled it in front of her, beginning to walk out of the door, headed to the forest to throw it out once more. "You know, sometimes I just don't understand you. Your common sense is way out of alignment."

He just scoffed, waiting for her to leave, shutting the door behind her.

Slowly, he lightly jumped off the furniture, waiting for a moment to listen for any noises. When all he could make out was Esme humming a soft tune downstairs and Rosalie and Emmett in the garage tinkering with the engines, he cautiously took a step forward. His eyes rapidly darted around, ready to once more retreat to an elevated surface if it was required.

After being sure he was the only one in the proximity, he walked back over to his corner chair, once more picking up the book.

He knew that if Alice ever told anyone else about this, he'd be mocked for centuries to come.

But he didn't care.

Only one fact mattered.

He hated snakes.

_7. He had been bitten by a rattler when he was a boy._

_He never really did get over it._


	8. Chapter 8

Nobody knew he could.

If it had crossed their minds, they probably never would have been able to imagine it. In their defenses, he never let them see, either.

He wasn't all that embarrassed. Given, a few decades earlier, he may have been, yes. But things had changed. Roles of women and men weren't as pronounced as they were back when. He wouldn't have been the only one to have the hobby.

It wasn't really embarrassment, so much as the fact that it had never really come up in conversation before. They had no need for his help in the area, so he never felt obligated to share it.

Until today.

The two of them had temporarily gone off on their own little vacation. With Christmas being only a few days away, the longing to spend a few romantic evenings together became stronger, and they had vanished to their Canadian cottage in hopes of finding the peaceful time they had been wanting.

That's when he felt her depression.

It was small, granted, but no matter the amount, it was always out of place for Alice. So, without even a slight hesitation, he'd rushed up to the bathroom where she was rapidly brushing through her short spikes, asking her to tell him what was wrong.

She had felt ridiculous telling him. The entire idea was miserably silly. Still, there was something in the human simplicity of it all that attracted her.

She wanted a real Christmas tradition.

She wanted to smell freshly baked cookies when she walked into the house.

Her wish was his command.

She had told him repeatedly to forget it, to not bother going through the trouble for nothing more than a new scent.

He ignored her and went to the store.

Hours later, he was up to his elbows in flour and eggs, his very amused companion sitting on the opposite counter he had been working on, watching him carefully.

In his entire life, both human and vampire parts, there were only two people outside himself who knew he could bake. His mother had been one of them. His wife the other. Those facts in mind, it became obvious that he hadn't gone anywhere even near a stove in years.

Didn't matter. Memories of hard work came flooding back into him just as quickly as his skill.

The next morning his clothes were a complete mess. He somehow managed to look weary. His shoulders drooped after the mental work of trying to recall forgotten recipes. He looked absolutely sick of the kitchen.

But she was too concentrated on the mountains of cookies to notice.

It was only a pity she couldn't have any.

She jumped into his flour-encrusted arms, deeply breathing in the smell of Christmas. "Thank you."

_8. He could bake better than most humans on their best days._


	9. Chapter 9

No one else knew he had ever even gone to one before. That in mind, obviously none of them knew that he enjoyed them, either. Honestly, this was Jasper. He read for entertainment. Sometimes he'd play his guitar when no one was around. Sometimes he'd watch a History Channel special, just to correct all the mistakes they made, but he didn't do much else in the way of amusement.

Or so they thought.

A small smile graced his lips as his eyes followed the figurine of his wife, a pixie dancing down the streets of New York in the direction of Carnegie Hall. She looked back expectantly at him after a moment, a hint of annoyance flowing off of her as she gave him her best scowl.

The scary one.

"Will you hurry up already, or else we're going to be late."

All he could do was chuckle and shake his head at her insistent whining, probably more amused than he had a good right to be. "We're almost there, love. 'Sides, this was your idea, not mine."

She crossed her arms impatiently, ignoring the group of men who were staring at her in awe as they walked past. "Oh, I beg to differ. This is exactly what you wanted to do tonight. It's not my fault you didn't know it yet." She turned on her heal, bouncing away towards the huge crowd, calling back to him as she did so. "Now hurry up!"

His lips automatically tugged up further, relentlessly following her. Hand in hand, they pushed their way through the people trying to get in as he held his breath, choking down the venom that mercilessly continued to pool into the back of his throat, burning as it went. He silently thanked God that they already had tickets, and they didn't have to crowd around a miniscule ticket booth with everyone else.

With all those beating hearts.

He forced the thoughts from his head. He had been standing out on this trip so far. He wasn't about to ruin it for her now. Besides, he was able to ignore enough painful instinct to remember that this was something he liked.

He would enjoy himself tonight, despite the packed bodies.

The happiness radiating from her promised him that.

As soon as they were settled into their front row seats, which he could only imagine she had gotten through bribes he didn't even want to think about, he leaned over, his face pressed against her ear, though even with the conversations clashing against them, he knew she would've heard perfectly if he didn't. "Remind me again why we came _here_, when we could've just rented a movie at the hotel."

She smirked, knowing that he was secretly looking forward to the upcoming performance.

She didn't have to search ahead to see that.

"I don't care what you think, it's good practice. Carlisle told me himself before we left that being in the city would give us good opportunities we wouldn't normally have." Her expression turned sour, though her joy didn't stop tingling through his veins. "Now stop complaining for once in your life and have fun."

He didn't have time to respond before the curtains pulled up and the lights dimmed, so the only thing he could do was slowly sink back into his seat, ignoring the discomfort of not breathing, while the robust woman began to sing.

He didn't know why he particularly liked operas. Maybe it was the emotion that was displayed so well, something he could completely relate to. Maybe it was the tragedy to it all, a thing that reflected his life closer than anything else had come. Maybe he just liked the music.

But one thing was for sure: if his brothers found out about this, he was a dead man.

The only thing worse was Rosalie.

_9. He always did get pleasure from operas._


	10. Chapter 10

Nobody knew he still took it out. They all knew he had it, yes; knew he had kept it. All of them could understand why he had. Just like Carlisle kept his cross, he kept this.

They just weren't aware that he still wore it. They just figured it stayed in the back of his dresser with all his other keepsakes. The thought that he may once in a while still use it was beyond them. There was, after all, no reason for him to have to.

None of them knew what Alice liked.

He stood in front of the mirror, something he didn't do often. He usually despised anything he could see his reflection in.

But this was different.

He shifted his body to the side, his eyes running across his proudly postured form.

It still fit.

He always knew it would. He didn't change. It didn't change. There was no reason for it not to. But it was always nice to check, nonetheless.

It wasn't the most beautiful thing in the world. It had faded by now, to the point where you couldn't be sure of its' color. It was ripped in several different places, most of which he couldn't remember the cause. There was dried out blood in various spots too; the stuff that no matter how hard he scrubbed wouldn't come off; he never was sure if it was his blood or someone elses. Some of the seams were falling apart.

Didn't matter much to him.

Never did.

She liked seeing him in it.

Alice sat on the bed, watching him, a smile playing at her lips. Maybe it was true what everyone said: women did love men in uniforms. But it didn't really matter much to her what the reason was. She never really needed one. All she had to do was ask him to put it on and he'd indulge her.

The others had never seen him in it. They all knew he had it; knew he kept it. That was his business. Still, she couldn't help but think they were missing out.

He looked…happier.

Every single time he wore it, his shoulders would automatically pull up, his back straightening into position, ready to pass any kind of inspection. He looked proud. He looked content to belong somewhere; looked content that he had physical evidence that he was a part of a group.

Slowly, he turned to face her, his lips tugging up at her pure joy. He didn't really know why she was so affected seeing him wearing it, but he didn't really care about the cause of it.

It felt good.

That was all that processed for him.

Her head tilted to the side as she breathed in the image of her husband, easily ignoring the small calamities of the clothes. Nodding to herself, she leaned forward at the end of the bed. "You need your boots."

He chuckled, his eyes shining. "Alice, darlin', if I put my boots on one more time, any places they're still holding together are going to fall apart."

She landed on her feet, dancing from the room to go into his. "No they won't," she sang, eagerly rushing to his closet. "They'll perfect it. If you can manage to wear your uniform without destroying it, you can pull through with the shoes. Just don't put too much weight on your feet and you'll be fine."

All he could do was sigh.

_10. He still wore his Confederate uniform to make her smile._


	11. Chapter 11

Nobody really knew for sure how he thought about everything. He never was one to voice his thoughts. He'd give the shortest answer possible whenever they asked his opinion—just enough to satisfy them. He never really liked sharing much though. Silence had always been his close companion. He didn't like people knowing his feelings on things.

So they all took their guesses. They did the best they could to decipher the wordless blonde, but none of them ever really did know for sure what he was thinking.

Except one.

He wasn't as hesitant to share things with her; wasn't so afraid of her judgment. She never had been one to judge.

He trusted her with his secrets. He was able to tell her thoughts and feelings that he had never shared with anyone else.

She knew.

The rest didn't always seem to get it. Their assumptions weren't always correct. They thought it was just her blood that he didn't want to be around. After her birthday, it was only all the more hard on him; they all thought that was the reason he shied away.

But she knew the truth.

He liked Bella. He always had. The first impression he had had of her happened before they even met; when Edward was telling them about Port Angeles. He had thought she would have made a good soldier. She stood her ground. She had will. She had courage. She was willing to fight, even when hope was gone. That was the thing that stood out to him.

He really did like Bella. The blood wasn't all that difficult to resist. If he could sit in a crowded room with humans for seven hours each day, he could stop himself from killing one of them at a bigger distance apart.

She was his wife's best friend, his brothers' fiancé, his future sister. The fact that she was human never really once mattered to him in the end.

The others thought he didn't want to be around her blood.

He had told her the truth.

Her fingers had brushed through his hair, her petite frame resting lightly on top of his chest, as he admitted it all to her, just as he always had.

He never shared with the others.

But he shared with her.

In the empty house, she patiently sat and listened to him admit it all. She heard the words desperately falling off his lips, hoping someone would understand.

He needed her to know it wasn't the blood. He needed her to know the truth.

He liked Bella.

He just didn't know how to act.

He could recall a sister he had when he was human. She was still in his memories, no matter how faint and blurred out her characteristics were. Rosalie wasn't a good example; they had a distant sibling bond, keeping the space between each other as much as possible.

He didn't know how to be around Bella. Didn't know what being a brother to a younger sister meant.

And through her comforting, she couldn't help but smile as he whispered his last confession in the silence.

"But that doesn't mean I don't love her."

_11. He thinks of Bella as his little sister._


	12. Chapter 12

Nobody knew he ever went to them. Why would he? It was hardly as if he had anyone to visit. He barely remembered his family; he couldn't recall any of his old friends. Even if he could, he didn't know where they were buried. So, as they did with most other things, they figured that he never went to any.

She knew the truth, mainly because she always went with him.

It was misty out when they got there, but not quite yet rainy. The chilly New York air blew across their faces, but each of them ignored it, heading directly over to their usual bench; the one under the frosty cherry tree. This was their spot. This is where they came to escape.

And to help.

The funeral procession carried on across the wet grass of the cemetery, the casket being lowered into the frozen ground as the family stood in a loose formation, crying. Holding each other.

The widow was far too young, but she held her head high. Her husband died bravely in war. She would carry on that courage if it took every last ounce of energy she had left. There was a time for crying. Now was not it. She refused to let him see her grieving because he got into heaven. She would be happy he was at peace. She wouldn't be selfish.

But what she didn't know was that she was getting aid from the beautiful stranger that sat motionless across the lawn.

He didn't send her much comfort. Barely enough for it to be detected. Just enough to hold her in place; to bring the feeling she had been wanting to know ever since she picked up the phone.

This is what he did.

He helped where he could. Alice would come with him, lending silent support and encouragement as the painful emotions of death hit him from all angles. And he would concentrate hard, forcing the peace to radiate off him enough to reach the other group.

He didn't know why he did. Maybe it was just to give back to the world. He had killed so many in his life; the least he could do was try and ease where he could. He knew that there had probably been hundreds of funerals and more to come because of him. He had caused the exact same thing he was witnessing at the moment to happen.

He felt guilt. He needed to give more to karma.

But it was more than that. There was peace in this place. Even through the endless tears, there was a soft content here that he didn't find anywhere else.

As an empath, he was constantly searching for a channel that felt good. He shied away from lust and power and greed.

The feelings that he wanted were here.

So he kept coming back. He and Alice would always return to this sacred, hallowed ground. They'd wait for it to be cloudy. They'd come to their worn bench beneath the tree; the one that somehow seemed warm and welcoming even surrounded by the dead. They'd watch another one be burried. They'd silently listen to the sermon from their spot. They'd watch the tears fall. Above all, they'd support.

And he could understand. He could relate to the nameless widow. He felt for her. He knew what she was going through. He recognized the familiar pain and embraced it with everything he had.

Because even though he had never once seen the gravestone of someone he loved, no one knew death like Jasper Hale.

_12. He sought happiness in the graves._


	13. Chapter 13

No one knew what he was like when he went. Hunting wasn't something that he exactly enjoyed doing in front of everyone else. He didn't like the feeling of letting his instincts completely take over, while in the presence of eyes of a person he respected. They knew it too. So they gave him his privacy and hung back. Let him go on his own.

Except her.

She watched from the tree she was perched on as her husband sat in the shadows, out of sight and smell of the herd of deer only twenty feet away.

He could feel her eyes on him as he crouched low in the bushes, but he tried his best to ignore her. Like he always did. Still, it was hard to shake off her gaze. This was one of the times he hated letting her see him. It always reminded him too much of what he was, how much better she deserved than him. He didn't like allowing her to get a glimpse of his dangerous, darker side.

Still, she always insisted on coming with him. She used the excuse that a human might cross their path. That was only partly the truth. The other part was more complicated; denser. There was something about him when he hunted; when he just let loose.

Something that she liked.

When vampires hunted, their true personalities, their natures, showed. The side that was like an animal. For Edward, it was like a lion. You wouldn't guess it in his regular appearance. For Carlisle, it was like a deer. He never outwardly showed that cautious, silent side anywhere else. For Emmett, it was like a bear. Alright, maybe he showed his wild side more than he should, but that's beside the point.

They all had their qualities—their defining characteristics.

Nobody else saw Jasper hunt, at least without him being guarded about their presence, so nobody else really knew what he was like.

Only her.

He slouched forward from the bushes just a tiny bit, eyes running over his prey. His mind sorted through the options of how to take one of them down; what ways would work and what wouldn't. What steps he could take to stay undetected.

And then he went for it.

Jasper was like a hawk. He didn't just jump in like most would; he sunk back into the atmosphere, waiting. He deciphered what he was going to do before he just ran. He waited until the opportune moment. He didn't go for the catch the moment he saw it: he waited for the catch to make its' own mistakes.

Just like a hawk.

And like a mouse in a cornfield, the buck never had a chance.

Its' dead neck was in his grasp before it had a chance to even turn its' head. His fingers held on tight, just like talons would.

She lightly jumped down from the branch she was perched on, landing without even a slight bounce on her feet as he threw the dead carcass aside.

And with the same swooping motion, he caught her.

_13. He was like a hawk._

**Thanks to ****DobbyWobby**** for the brilliant idea!**


	14. Chapter 14

**WARNING: Mature for sensual/graphic scenes.**

No one else knew about the scar.

No one else knew that it had been created from desire, and not from pain like the rest of them. How could it be a reminder of a good memory? It had to have been caused from a passion-filled fight, didn't it? Just like all the rest.

They had all just assumed that he had gotten all of his marks from battles. What else would one of them have been from? The South had been deadly, so it was a completely realistic and sensible explanation that he had gotten hurt so many times. There was no other logical cause besides that of what he had gotten his scars from.

From war. From rogue newborns that were getting out of control. Maybe even as some type of punishment from Maria.

They never had guessed that the cause had been something completely different.

She moaned in pleasure, her back arching, pressing her body further against his chest. His hands played against her, lighting tracing the form of her bare hips as he pushed deeper into her. They moved lower to cup the luscious curve of her form.

He liked the sound of it; of her pure satisfaction.

Her head rolled back against the pillow, and she desperately clawed at the sheets as his pulsing movements became faster, steel against steel inside of her. His rapid panting breaths shot at her face, the sweet scent the only thing keeping her ground to earth.

Pulling himself out of her opening, is tongue began to lightly trace across the center of her chest, her small, perfect breasts rubbing across his face as he did so; her nipples hard against his cheek. He ran a finger over one in satisfaction.

Her naked frame fit perfectly against his as she forced herself further against him, the juice of her body trickling down his side.

His chest heaving, he pushed his hard flesh back into her body, forcing her to start convulsing in a heavy orgasm below him. Her fingers moved up to his hair, clutching onto his golden locks as he pulled slightly away from her, lingering in the air over the pixie goddess.

The strong emotions of bliss and joy and leisure and delight burst from both of them, keeping each other going; renewing each other's energy in an endless cycle.

Finally, he rolled off from on top of her, but she wouldn't have the separation. Moving back to their original position, she heaved herself onto him, and began sucking at his skin, lingering at his erection. She made her way upward, past his chest, finally making it up to the nape of his neck.

Everyone had assumed that he had gotten all his scars from fighting. From battles. From

She wasn't sure she'd ever really know why she did what she did. Maybe it was just a spur of the moment lust he threw at her. Maybe it was the fact that she wanted to do something spontaneous. Maybe it was just the fact that she had the sudden, plain, pure urge.

It didn't really matter, because either way, no matter the reason, at that moment she bit newborns. From vindictive dictators.

An overzealous wife?

The thought never occurred to them.

And each hoped to God that it never would, because of one main thing:

Emmett.

_14. Not all of his scars were the result of hate._

**Special shout out to ****DarkestMorgaine****! This chapter wouldn't have happened without you!**


	15. Chapter 15

Nobody knew he enjoyed going with her. They all figured it was just an obligation she forced him into; something that he had to do, along with every other typical American husband. They figured she guilt him into it, and he'd brood, and complain, but go with her nonetheless. And he'd hold the bags for her, and let her dress him like he was the latest model of Ken and she was the five year old girl. Then, like every other husband, he's give a sigh of relief when she announced they were done and all too happily leave. Normal behavior.

Nothing about him was really all that normal though.

He walked quietly behind her as she happily skipped through the long rows, happily chatting pleasantries with the sales woman. Once in a while, she'd grab something off the shelves, hold it up to herself for half a second, and then throw it to him to carry.

Needless to say, his arms were quickly filling.

He didn't mind the extra weight in the least.

They went from the women's section and towards the men's.

She no longer needed to say anything. After 50 years, he knew the drill.

Silently, he slipped into one of the dressing rooms as she began rapidly launching things over the top of the stall, and even he had to chuckle at the overwhelmed emotions of the poor store employee. He'd have probably paid dear money if she had let him take her picture.

"And remember Jazz, you've _got to_ _match them properly_! You can't wear Chanel and Gabanna together; it clashes!"

He smiled softly as he heard her turn to the girl, her voice disapproving as a phony shame came down on him. "I keep telling him not to wear competing brands together, but the man's impossible! He never listens when I tell him anything. You'd think he didn't even care about what he was wearing."

He didn't.

No one ever really knew that he enjoyed shopping, though. If it had been up to him, he'd spend the rest of his life wearing sweatpants and oversized hand-me-down shirts. Why in the world would he care about shopping then?

They all figured he was just like any other husband. He'd sulk as his wife dragged him off to the next store. He'd complain and whine when they got there, and try to ignore what was happening. He'd carry her bags and hand her the credit cards, and let his eyes widen when he saw the price.

He let her drag. He carried the bags. He handed her the money.

He never sulked. Because if there was one thing that made her happy, it was buying things.

And in his book, her happiness was worth more than his.

_15. He was 100 percent, totally and completely whipped._


	16. Chapter 16

No one ever knew he went, especially not for these particular purposes. After all, it was a hospital. Blood. Free temptation all around. And more than that; the emotions of death and grief and sorrow and pain and lost hope would be too much for him to really handle; enough to smother the sanity of anyone who had to feel them. Or, so they thought, anyway.

But he was stronger than they gave him credit for.

Carlisle may have otherwise found out, yes, but he was careful to go only when he knew he wasn't there. He was careful to only go when no one was paying enough attention to notice his absence.

So no one really knew the truth.

With one exception.

She smiled happily from the side, watching her husband fondly. The five children in the room unconsciously inched closer to him, as if the distance would somehow affect how soon they heard the next words out of his mouth. But they had learned their lesson to not ask. Every time a "what happened next" came from their mouths, they'd be greeted with a longer silence than the last.

His body eagerly soaked in their emotions. Excitement, love, joy; they were all blended together. The suffering and fear that they were feeling when he and his wife walked in on them an hour ago had healed on its' own doing, not needing any help from him in the slightest.

"And then, the clock began ticking, and she knew she didn't have much time left to wait." His tones were animated, and the two girls—the eight year old with the broken arm, the six year old with tonsillitis—giggled as the story became more dramatic. The bed that all of them were scrunched onto deflated a little more as the nine year old boy, a victim of leukemia and one of Jasper's most regular audience members, began bouncing up and down from his seat at the end of the railing.

He didn't know exactly why he liked coming here; didn't know why he volunteered his time in a project such as this. It wasn't like he was extremely talented with children—not like Esme or even Rosalie would have been. It wasn't like this was one of the top things on his list of hobbies, either. Honestly, telling stories again and again to children in the hospital? It wasn't something that most would think a vampire would do.

Still, he didn't have to be good at telling stories, either. Their minds tended to be blown away at the smallest unfamiliar things; things adults wouldn't bother wasting their time caring about. And it felt…good. Good, to be able to not only see the affects of his work, but to _feel_ it. Every single time he walked into the rooms, where the young patients were waiting for him, all he'd be able to pick up from them was pain.

He was familiar with that.

But by the time he left…

Maybe he just wanted to make a difference. Either way, seeing their faces staring intently at him, already guessing what the next line of the story would be, he couldn't help but get that sinking feeling in his stomach, that not being a father really was missing out on more than he had originally thought.

Didn't matter though. He still came. He still healed.

His smirk grew as he felt the impatience coming off of them. Maybe if it weren't for the fact that all of them were somehow sick or injured, he would have teased them and postponed the ending, but as he continued on with the story, he decided to spare them the time. "And then the princess looked down at the knight, and said, 'You've kept me waiting a long time, good sir.'"

"And do you know what the warrior said?" She stood up from her spot at the other side of the room, coming to stand by the bed, as she shared a knowing look.

One shook their head. The others just waited, silent. "'I'm sorry, my lady.'"

He smirked, meeting her gaze. "And the two lived happily ever after."

_16. Making people smile from words is a gift._

_He had it._


	17. Chapter 17

Nobody really knew just how deep his memories went; how prominent they still were in his mind. They all just thought that they had been lost. All they were were distant reminisces in the back of his head, never quite ever making their way to the front. After all, he had moved on, hadn't he? There was no reason to ever think back to those earlier years of his life. They were in the past. There was no reason to ever visit them.

They never really realized that that didn't stop him though.

She sprinted lithely through the thick wooding, her feet just slightly touching the ground with each step. Her presence went unknown, completely silent, nothing more than a slight breeze across a branch. Her paced picked up as his smell grew stronger, alongside her vision.

She slowed again as soon as she burst through the clearing of trees, quietly stepping her way over to him, lying down beside him.

He didn't say anything.

She curled against his side, pulling his arm under her shoulder. Burying her nose into the crook of his elbow, she breathed in deeply, allowing his scent to fill her lungs. She snuggled further into his side, refusing to let her presence go unrecognized by him.

He closed his eyes, letting her optimistic emotions flow through him.

"Jazz?" Her quiet voice rang out clearly through the open night, an edge of sorrow wrapped around them. It made him guilty. He didn't like the idea that he was the cause of any of her sorrow. He didn't like her being hurt at all, but having her hurt by him was unacceptable in his book.

"Hmm?" he murmured, his mind elsewhere besides where they were.

"Are you alright?"

He didn't say anything. What was he supposed to say? He knew he was being ridiculous. Nothing mattered anymore; he knew that. Nothing made a difference.

And yet the emotions wouldn't stop.

"What's wrong?" Her murmur was hesitant. He didn't plan on answering. She was blind; didn't know the future of the conversation.

That made her nervous.

He shrugged. The cool night air blew over them in one quick gust of wind, managing to make the silence that was quickly falling in between them slightly more bearable. He shifted, unsure of what exactly to say. "I'm sorry," he finally settled on, rolling over onto his side to put his other arm around her. "I'm not being very good company, am I?"

She shook her head against his arm. "You never asked me to come." She waited for another long moment. "She can't hurt you anymore, you know. I'm sorry I didn't see it coming. I should have had a vision that—"

"Don't," he interrupted quietly, burrowing his face into the spikes of her hair. "Don't say it's your fault. I shouldn't have…" He struggled to find the right words. "I should've learned to deal with this by now."

He kicked himself again in frustration. A few simple words. That's all it had taken for him to have to get up and leave the room, drawing unnecessary attention to him.

Torture. Killing. Hate. Division.

Maria Theresa.

Four words. Four simple words and one name. That was all it took to make him leave the school in a mad rush, not bothering to care who was paying attention, cringing in fear as the face danced behind his eyes cruelly and merciless. Leave and hide out in the woods where no one could find him.

No one but her.

Nobody thought that his past was still predominant in his life. It was over. It didn't matter anymore. There was no reason to remembering.

But that never stopped him from it.

"She can't hurt you anymore," she repeated softly, wrapping her arms around his waist in a tight embrace. "You never have to see her again."

"I know," he whispered.

He knew. That didn't make anything any different.

_17. Nearly a century had passed since he had last seen her._

_He was still afraid of Maria._


	18. Chapter 18

No one knew that he was the one who did it. They all just figured it was Carlisle; after all, who else would it be? Carlisle denied it, of course, saying that he was just as clueless as the rest of them. They never believed him though. No other person had any cause.

Except one.

That person never crossed their minds though.

He talked rapidly into the phone, just as he always did on Monday mornings, the school cafeteria empty around him. He was careful to never be caught there though. His siblings never came this way, no, which was mainly why he picked here to come before the bell rang. Still, he always kept in mind that one of them may change their route for some reason.

He never let his guard down.

And, like every other Monday morning, he finished quickly and hung up, patiently waiting for the day to end.

They drove home in silence, the slippery ground moving under them in a stealth rush, the fat raindrops landing against the windshield in random patterns. Pulling into the driveway, the five of them smoothly made their way inside, throwing their things to the side at the front door.

He paused and smiled softly as he heard the argument from the kitchen.

"Honestly Carlisle. Will you just admit that it's you and give it up already."

There was a deep, soft chuckle that followed, vibrating against the tiled floor. "I'm sorry dear, but I swear, it's not me. It's never been me."

There was a long moment of quiet peace, and she began to hum lightly. "Fine then. Be your stubborn self. But would you get me a vase of water?"

The content happiness for his wife left him in waves as he walked over to the sink, filling the glass piece he had grabbed with the cool flow of water. There was another moment of quiet peace, the love coming from both of them predominantly rising. He glanced across the room, looking through the ajar door, finding the couple standing by the table, Carlisle's arms wrapped around her waist as she straightened the boquet in front of them.

"They're beautiful."

"I know," she said fondly, making his smile glow brighter as the pleasure hit him. "They always are."

"Mm. They are. Your secret admirer has good taste."

She giggled. "Are you trying to flatter yourself?"

He sighed, exasperated. "It's not me."

Smirking, he dropped his backpack beside the others, making his way slowly up the stairs. He swiftly closed his door, pacing over to where she was sitting on the bed, lying down next to her. She shifted, leaning up against him as his arms automatically wrapped around her petite form.

Burying her face into his chest, she clung loosely to his shirt. "I'm getting jealous."

He laughed quietly, continuing only when he felt Edward wasn't listening. "Would you like me to get some for you?"

She shook her head against him, amused at the offer. "You know these make her day."

He pulled her closer, enjoying the feel of her body against his. "I know," he whispered.

She giggled. "You're way too much of a gentleman."

They all thought it was Carlisle. What they didn't take into consideration was that he wasn't the one who was able to feel her emotions when she got them. He wasn't the one who knew just _how_ happy they really made her.

And the one thing he thrived from was happiness.

_18. Every Monday morning, he secretly ordered Esme flowers._

_Because he never got sick of her smile._


	19. Chapter 19

No one had ever really seen him with open eyes. Sure, they knew him fairly well. They knew his favorite books. They knew what he'd like for Christmas, what his favorite songs were, his favorite colors. Places and movies and historical events and people and speeches and quotes. They knew what he hated, what really annoyed him, what the last things were he ever wanted to happen. They knew the people who he'd never fully forgive and a few of the memories that stained his innocence with blood. They knew the things he truly despised with all his heart.

They knew the basic facts of him.

They never really knew _him_.

His true thoughts and feelings on thousands of things were hidden deep below the surface; too deep for anyone to uncover.

And sometimes, he kept a few actions hidden, too.

At least from them.

She slowed her walk as she followed up the stairs, the empty house consuming her spirits. Coming to a graceful stop outside his door, she stood there for a moment in the bare hall, the normally cheerful expression pulled down into a grim frown. Sadly, she raised a tiny fist up to the wood, softly rapping against it.

No answer.

Without waiting more than the two seconds she deemed acceptable, she pulled it open, slipping into the room before shutting it tight once more.

It was ten shades darker than the rest of the house; lights off, curtains drawn on the wall-sized window, closed to the rain hammering against them, the black furniture that adorned it sucking away any reflection that was left.

She had no trouble seeing her way through the black abyss.

Her feet made no noise as she paced silently over to the towering bed he was on; curled up to the side opposite her in a tight ball, face shoved into the pillow beneath him.

They muffled the sobs.

She climbed up next to him, his pain causing her face to miserably contort, the fact that her grief was making him worse not enough to make her halt the emotions.

Lying down beside him, she wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her forehead against his back.

Words were useless.

They always were.

He turned around without hesitance in her arms, sinking further away from the headrest until his broken expression was cradled in the curve between her breasts.

She shifted, moving so she gripped his neck, burying her face into his messy, uncombed hair.

He clung desperately to her shirt, fighting for control of his voice. It was a useless cause. The dry weeping wouldn't stop.

She pulled him tighter against her body, her heart aching with each shiver that ran through his body.

His chest heaved in defiance, the only thing running through his mind being the hope that the impossible tears would suddenly come in a sudden miracle.

But the dry cries of pain never ended.

No one had ever really seen him with open eyes. They knew basic facts. They knew the outer layers of him.

They never really knew _him_.

Another him.

An uncovered him.

A shattered him.

Because there were some actions he never let them see.

Except her.

_19. He wasn't as afraid of crying as everyone thought._


	20. Chapter 20

Nobody ever realized just how much it meant to him. It was just a simple gift; Carlisle always got one for each of them at their graduations. They were always nice little tokens, yes. A book. A piece of jewelry. Some new sheet music. At every single graduation, he'd spend time looking for the exactly right present for each one of his children.

And they all appreciated it.

One just appreciated it more than the others.

The wind blew past them, sending caps flying in the air as the joyous faces of soon-to-be college students ran to catch them, laughing as they did so. Their parents weren't far behind, armed with cameras and equally happy smiles; some because their little girl's dream was coming true. Others because their boy was finally about to move out of the house.

The Cullens hung back.

They were the only ones who managed to pull off wearing the ugly, faded blue robes, although Alice and Edward weren't about to let the opportunity slip by to mock their siblings' torture. Rosalie was the only one who held hers in her arms, refusing to wear it for a second longer than absolutely necessary, while Emmett and Jasper good naturedly kept theirs on as Esme doted over the three of them, looking equally proud as every other mother in the vicinity. They just satisfied her with a continued rolling of the eyes and brushing off of the attention, grinning at her exceptionally human excitement.

Two of them grinned, anyway. Rosalie just stubbornly glared.

Alice giggled, the sound making his heart flip as he stared at her beautiful face in wonder, unbelievable of how someone could be so happy about anything; something so simple as an overrated ceremony.

He didn't get much of a chance to become entranced in her feelings though, when Carlisle softly cleared his throat, asking if they could talk alone. Nodding slowly, he followed him across the open field of the high school's front lawn, finally coming to a stop on one of the unoccupied benches of the main sidewalk. The two sat down on opposite sides, a patient silence falling between.

That's when Carlisle reached into his jacket pocket.

Jasper couldn't clearly remember the last time he had been given a present. As a human, he had been given the occasional birthday gift, sure. He had received a few different trinkets on his wedding day, but he was too distracted to really take notice of what they were.

His mother died when he was fairly young; he hadn't had much of an opportunity to receive anything from her of physical importance. His father wasn't much for affection; anything showing love, including buying his children things, was one of the lower things of importance in his book. It wasn't that he was cruel, just that he had a certain view on what it meant to be overly fond of someone.

He had gotten used to that attitude. He didn't expect things.

That's why he was so surprised at the onslaught of emotions he felt when he got one.

Every graduation, Carlisle bought presents for them. They all appreciated the thought behind the entire thing.

One just appreciated it more than the others.

He had forgotten what it was like to receive anything from a father. Not just physical.

Anything that said 'I'm proud of you.'

He never did get rid of that plain, golden pocket watch. Because that first graduation present meant a lot more than just a material thing.

_20. Fatherly affection was more important to him than they'd ever know._


	21. Chapter 21

No one really understood his aversions to certain things. They hadn't seen the things he had seen; they hadn't experienced the things that he had experienced before; they hadn't born the same pains as he had; hadn't shared the same fears. They hadn't looked death in the eye time and time again like he had. They never understood.

Emmett chalked it up to being insane. Rosalie just thought he was a 'paranoid freak' who happened to have a gruesome past. Edward somewhat knew; he had seen a few of his memories. Still, he had never experienced any of it full blast. Esme probably understood the best; every time she saw a baby she'd mourn her dead son. It was as close as it got with what he went through. Carlisle let the medical side of him take over, believing that it was the vampiric equivalent of post-traumatic stress disorder.

But none of them knew what happened with him. So those small instances, when he'd unconsciously flinch away or tense, didn't make sense to any of them.

And he didn't want to explain it.

She leaned contentedly against his chest, deeply inhaling his scent.

The scent of perfection.

Her perfect lips lifted slightly, her palm enclosed in his hand. Their fingers entwined, fitting perfectly against each other in a simple puzzle.

It was the best feeling in the world, being next to him.

His arm draped over her petite frame, holding her firmly to his side, not willing to have her any further apart than they had to be; whether that meant a mile or a molecule, it hardly mattered to him.

He could still feel the difference.

Closing her eyes, she pressed her face against his shirt, not caring how much she felt like a shy child, clinging to their parent in that moment.

It didn't matter.

It felt good.

He clung to her sleeve as the wind changed, the smells blowing against his skin like sparks of a forest fire coming at them, the very taste of blood temptingly trailing down his throat as he fought to stay in control.

She clung back.

She kept him sane. She kept him safe. And in doing so she kept him happy.

But sometimes, the happiness disappeared.

It was a spur of the moment action. She never saw it coming a second before it happened.

Even then it went by quickly.

The college student ran by where they were seated on the cemetery bench, running later by the second in the mad rush to get to class, his backpack hanging loosely over his shoulder, his hair a mess. He hadn't had time to comb it that morning after he had woken up to find the leftover pizza slice substituting as a pillow, the rubber cheese sticking to his cheek, his alarm flashing at 12:00 in front of his dreary face.

It had broke sometime during the night.

He tripped in the hurry.

His books splattered against the pavement in front of the two of them, the rain puddles from last night immediately beginning to soak through the covers.

Alongside them lay the sprawled out, deep red scarf that he had stuffed into the bag in a hurry.

And that's when he lost it.

Nobody fully understood his aversion. Why his fists automatically clenched and his eyes betrayed the fear whenever he saw one. No one even realized the cause. Only the reaction. Maybe it was just intuition, something that had become natural to him after suffering under her power for so long.

Either way, whenever he saw one like it, he cringed away from the memories of the cloth Maria tied around her neck before each battle.

She had claimed it was for luck.

All it reminded him of was hell.

_21. He never forgot her scarlet scarf._

_Each one brought back the pain of war._


	22. Chapter 22

No one knew just how often history repeated itself in their relationship. It had been a long held belief in the family that they had only gotten married once. Which was true. They had only stood in front of an altar one time, not paying attention to the minister, their angelic faces shining. They had only been through one ceremony together. That one, simple, cheap, fast, empty ceremony.

But what they didn't realize was that there were more steps to the tradition than just exchanging a few vows.

He leaned closer to her, the hand that was on the small of her back unconsciously pulling her further in.

She went willingly, not a trace of resistance to her step. It was natural to be close to him. Nothing more than a feeling of right.

She liked right.

Her lips pulled up slightly as his watch continued to tick on, impatiently waiting for time to go faster.

He met her expression, realizing that she knew what was coming.

He didn't care.

He never did.

It made her happy to know.

That made him ecstatic.

She pretended to momentarily forget his presence in an effort to calm her eagerness, waving to the other young couple that passed them on the sidewalk, the dog on the leash running in front of them, eager to return home.

The pads of his paws hit the cement in long strides, somehow still energetic, even after spending the day running laps through the park, the blood pumping through him never slowing. He pulled against the binds of his neck, yanking hard as they stopped, interrupting his walk.

His owners could only stare at the beautiful strangers.

The strangers didn't seem to notice.

Their white skin glowed softly as they moved under the brightness of a dark, iron streetlamp, the cool night air softly breezing by them in nothing more than a whisper.

A child shrieked with delight in the distance, her father lovingly swinging her around in the air, in that moment looking just as cherubic as his daughter. He pulled her tight after the tenth round, cradling her small body against his chest, her own chest heaving with a breathless joy.

They stopped to stand by the cold stone monument.

The frozen man and woman in the flowing marble robes seemed to be watching them as she moved forward. Holding her breath in fear of screaming with glee, she perched herself on the edge near their sandaled feet, her face beaming, her legs restlessly swinging back and forth in excitement.

There was another slight breeze.

The teeth gnawing at the bottom of her lip gave away her anticipation.

His watch gave one more tick.

He straightened his jacket.

He reached into his breast pocket.

He pulled out the little black box.

And then he kneeled down.

No one knew just how often history repeated itself in their relationship. It had been a long held belief in the family that they had only gotten married once.

Which was true.

They had only stood in front of an altar one time, not paying attention to the minister, their angelic faces shining. They had only been through one ceremony together.

That one, simple, cheap, fast, empty ceremony.

But what they didn't realize was that there were other steps to the tradition than just exchanging a few vows.

_22. He didn't care whether they had the wedding or not.  
That never stopped him from proposing.  
Because the thrill she got from the whole thing never faded.  
And that made him smile._


	23. Chapter 23

No one knew the reason behind his going back to there; back to the South. They all just assumed that it was the same as any of theirs would be. He wanted to see his home again. It was the place he was born and had spent the majority of his life in. It would only make sense to feel the pull to return. It only made sense to want to go back to the place he had considered his home for decades.

It was part of his reasons, in a way. He just never told them the other ones.

He wasn't sure he knew the other ones.

But that never stopped him from returning.

He pulled his jacket tighter around him as the wind blew harder, trying to look natural in the unusually cool weather.

It didn't matter much though. The tourists that were around were huddled in the gift shop, trying to avoid the showering rain.

He kicked at the ground as he continued his trek up the hill's path, throwing dirt into the air, blackening his pants as he did so.

He didn't care.

He wasn't paying attention that.

The historical markers and white signs faded from his view as his vision zeroed in on it, his shoes falling slower against the soil as he went.

He took one more step.

And then he collapsed to the earth.

No one knew the reason behind his going back there; back to the South.

He wasn't even sure that he knew.

Maybe it was because it was just a memory. They all clung desperately to the human memories they had left, no matter what they were, good or bad, it didn't matter.

Maybe it was because it was his home. It was a feeling most in the world got; the want to return to one's birthplace.

Maybe it was because no one knew death like him.

And this was where it had all started.

He huddled closer to the damp soot of the forest floor, clinging desperately at it as he kneeled down, his body buckling over.

No one knew death like him. The horrors that should be forbidden to even be traversed in dreams had sunken down to not only surround him in breath, but to live through his very being for decades. He had seen things that should never be encountered by anyone with even versatile senses of sight, smell, sound, touch, and most of all, pain.

But this is where it had all started.

Under this ancient oak, cannon smoke fuming out all conscious choices and gunshots ringing through the pitch atmosphere, he had first seen—really _seen_—the misfortunes that hell could bring.

Under this ancient oak, he had cradled his dying comrade's head in his lap, praying for the miracles that would never come.

And he had never looked back for one again.

Maybe he returned to the South for the memories. Maybe for the fact it was his home.

But most of all to come back to this place, and remember where his life had all started.

_23. The old tree never once failed to remind him._

**A million and one apologies for not updating sooner! My first week of summer vacation, where I thought I'd finally get a break, was spent hosting visitors. Hopefully I'll have more time now.**


	24. Chapter 24

Nobody ever really doubted that his feelings hadn't changed. They all thought that he was still just as set as he had been in the beginning. After all, it was the only life he had known for nearly a century. It seemed like an obvious thing, that it would stick with him, no matter how far buried it was. It was natural, right? You got used to something. You made a pattern for yourself. Of course you'd miss it at least a small bit.

That seemed to be their opinion of things, anyway.

But they had been wrong before.

He stared at her small face in wonder. There was nothing there but perfection. An utterly searing flawlessness that seemed absolutely impossible to achieve. And yet there it was.

And every time, that fact caught him off guard.

Every time, he waited to be at least a hint of a bit less impressed; for the stunned emotions that ran through him to start diminishing in strength.

It never happened.

Every time, he resumed his stare in wonder at how anyone could be so beautiful.

Every time, he continued in his anciently held ritual of praise in her name.

Nothing was more powerful than the pull he had to her every move.

And that's what made them wrong.

It was true, yes. He had lived the same thing, every single day for decades on end. It was the one thing he had been familiar with before it was taken away from him for good. It was only to be expected, the feelings of homesickness that would certainly arise. But none of them really took the time to realize that they never came.

Her golden eyes rose to meet his, her gaze lingering for a long moment.

The intensity between them burned brighter, neither one willing to look away.

The idea seemed impossible.

His fingers played with the hem of her jeans, lingering under her belt.

She gave a soft giggle. Her hand moved down, intertwining with his.

His lips pulled up.

Perfection didn't even come close.

And that's exactly what made them wrong.

Or maybe they were really right. Maybe there really was a part of him that missed his old life.

If there was, he never knew about it though.

Because the only thing he saw was what lay before his eyes right now.

His heart.

His love.

His soul.

_24. He never regretted leaving the wars._


	25. Chapter 25

No one doubted it; they all thought that they knew him. They all thought that they had him unraveled; that his nature was simple and suffice.

One of them knew the truth.

And for him, one would always be enough.

_25. He had secrets._

_She kept them._

**Thank you to all my amazing readers and reviewers! Your support means the world to me!**


	26. Chapter 26

A quick note for all of you who enjoyed this story: I've got a sequel of sorts on this story. Alice's version, if anyone is interested. First chapter is up. Miss you all. :)


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